


Bias

by Arithanas



Series: The Count and his Valet [18]
Category: Les Trois Mousquetaires | The Three Musketeers - Alexandre Dumas
Genre: Adopted Children, Established Relationship, Fatherhood, Gen, Generation Gap, Master/Servant, Teen Pregnancy
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2011-07-23
Updated: 2011-07-23
Packaged: 2018-03-24 21:36:14
Rating: Not Rated
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings, Underage
Chapters: 1
Words: 1,558
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/3785092
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/Arithanas/pseuds/Arithanas
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>SUMMARY: 1646, Blois. Even for a putative parent, it is hard to receive the notice of some unexpected pregnancy.</p>
            </blockquote>





	Bias

**Author's Note:**

> Since this fan fiction is based on a historical fiction, it is necessary to note that the age of consent is different with that of today. Under the Ancien Régime, the historical period in which D’Artagnan Romances are set, the marriage age was 12 years for women and 14 for men, since Church controlled the moral conduct is assumed that the age of consent should be the same. Paradoxically, the age of majority, the right of each person to decide whom to marry without some kind of parental approbation, was obtained at age 25 for women and 30 years for males.

_The best work never was and never will be done for money_.  
~ _John Ruskin_

Early in the afternoon, the old servant was engaged in picking up the shirts he had left to dry in the long poles. That was a chore no one else performed, the master of the house’s wardrobe was his responsibility and he fulfilled it as if it was his honor, not his duty, but it was not as easy as in his young age when it was less pleasurable. In those days, he hated to spend long hours washing, starching and ironing those damned shirts, but now, the hot iron relieved the pain in his old hands. Carefully, he places the robes in the wicker basket and went to the kitchen that is alone. Charlot’s wife was taking her nap, before rushing to give the last touches to the supper almost at the Angelus. The old Breton likes his mundane, everyday routine.  
  
He filled the sad iron with kitchen coals and, while the metal warmed, he sorted the shirts and got the starch ready. He started his job, mindlessly; the tips of his fingers warned him when he was getting sloppy with the starch or the heat. His master had a taste for a well starched cloth, whiles he appreciates the lack of effort to remove the stains, especially now, since there is no blood in the linen, as a result for a peaceful, country life. He took care on the folds, being especially fussy with the laces on the cuffs and collars. He smiled all the time, even when he found a couple of eyelets that were in want of a good mend. Grimaud was ironing the collars, when he noticed his young protégé loitering around the working table. That was expected, since Raoul has gone to Blois to ask some questions to one of his tutors and Blaisois was never a particularly shrewd boy. So, with a grunt of acknowledge to his presence, Grimaud keep working.  
  
Blaisois was a fine boy, tall, well proportionated and healthy as an ox; he was almost fifteen, since he was a couple of year older than the young master. Grimaud was sure he did for the orphan all he could, but somehow, his general impression was that this knave never will be a good valet. Sometimes, Grimaud felt disappointed with Blaisois’ performance, since the boy cannot cook, barely can sew and all his efforts to cram the letters inside that thick skull were fruitless; but, the boy had a good heart and knew how to attract the attention of people around him; his memory was much better than Grimaud’s; Blaisois was made for housework, not for personal service, and it was time yield to the evidence.  
  
“Master Grimaud...” called out the young man, while his protector selected another cuff to iron.  
  
“Yes?” Years of silence made it difficult to elaborate with many words.  
  
“I am in trouble,” said the boy, deciding not to delay the issue, but one could see that he did not lack a desire to flee. “Or better, I made Toinette into trouble.”  
  
Grimaud closed his eyes and tried to stay calm. Antoinette was one of the scullery maids, young, active and well-rounded for her fourteen years; blond, but mostly ordinary. He placed the cuff, starched and pressed it, whiles trying to sort the mess this boy had made. The master should be severe with Blaisois and the girl, especially now that a child was expected. Not that the Count would be puritanical, but it was a serious misdemeanor that Grimaud should have stopped in the beginning. How was that he did not see what was happening?  
  
“Are you angry?”  
  
“Vexed,” he replied and took another cuff. “I expected more from you”  
  
“I would say I'm sorry, but I'd be lying...”  
  
“Of course, no man ever regrets wetting his wick.”  
  
Blaisois stood straight and his face became serious, as if that truth offended him personally. Grimaud kept working, no matter how his protégé took the rude comment.  
  
“I love her, Master Grimaud; there is no other woman in the world to me.”  
  
“Blaisois, be honest before you assure me that the pair of pears stored under her shirt had nothing to do with this matter.”  
  
“Toinette is beautiful and has nice teeth,” the boy reluctantly admitted, “but I appreciate her company. She will be a good match for me at work and at home.”  
  
Grimaud decided not to ask about the bed. Apparently that was more than demonstrated and, ultimately, it was not his affair.  
  
“If you thought that, you should tell me before making a bastard”, he claimed, putting the cuffs and collars over the freshly ironed shirts. “I could have spoken to _M. le comte_ , perhaps you could have gotten a house. Now, _M. le comte_ would be furious at what you did under his roof.”  
  
“In the haystack, actually,” the boy said with a smugly smile.  
  
Grimaud was not a man to tolerate such insolence and, with a quick slap, the boy was stripped of his desire to make witty comments. Blaisois looked down, it was not the first time the head of the household staff beat him, for years the boy had endured flips, bumps on the head and spankings on his part, but Grimaud only slap people who would soon stop working in Bragelonne. That was a serious warning.  
  
“I apologize, but I maintain what I said about my feelings.”  
  
Grimaud grunted and plied the clean sun-dried hose; he wanted to believe that there was hope for Blaisois. He realized he was being hypocritical, since his master and his’ antics were even more censurable than this youthful lust’s outcome, but it was his duty to maintain the house rules and image of his master out of its walls.  
  
“Do you not believe me, Master Grimaud?”  
  
Like all lovers, the boy needed to present his case to anyone, even to the person who was obliged to punish him. Grimaud only need look in his eyes, it was obvious that Blaisois was in love as a fool and the boy did not need to confirm anything; nevertheless, his lack of response prompted the boy to insist with all the candor of his few years. Pity that youth was so naive.  
  
“You don’t believe me!”  
  
“You are not talking with your head!” Grimaud replied; as usual, the angrier he was, the lower was his volume. “But don’t worry; I’ll speak to _M. le comte_. You will marry her. You will have the wench.”  
  
“It is not about flesh! It is about care for each other and try to make the other better,” Blaisois proclaimed, his hand was in the table, and Grimaud signaled him to keep it away from the iron. His protégé complied, but he had to speak his mind. “I am talking about being together, come hell or high water! No offense, Master Grimaud, neither to you or to my godfather, but what a pair of old bachelors like you two could know about love?”  
  
Grimaud casted his eyes down, his eye fell on the wicker basket with the clean clothes of his master, just one of so many chores. A warm smile was born on his lips. This child was too full of himself to see the obvious, but it was the original plan, one that has resisted time and trials. What kind of affair could survive under the scrutiny of others?  
  
“Even if you do not believe it, I had my share of young flesh in my heyday, and my helping of regret.” Grimaud picked the basket up. “Maybe you are right. I need to talk to _M. le comte_.”  
  
With the load of clothes on his arms, thinking about his boy, worried for his future, Grimaud rushed up to the room of his master and wishing to put everything in its proper place and have the time to think about his next step, but it could not go as he wanted. The master was in his cabinet and heard him enter. A quick glance over his shoulder was all it took to make the Count leave the quill on the desk.  
  
“Is there something amiss?”  
  
A nod.  
  
“My boy?”  
  
A shake  
  
“Your boy?”  
  
A nod.  
  
“What is it?”  
  
“His doxy’s with child”  
  
“Damned boy!” the master rested his hand in his servant’s shoulder. “For crying shame...”  
  
A nod.  
  
“Should I play the role of the inflexible and stern Count?”  
  
Grimaud looked up and, in the eyes of his master read everything he had to know: He didn't like that role. He would never do. It was bestowed unto him by his father, along with the title, and the Count had enough integrity and good sense to feel ashamed of him playing the hypocrite, when he always believed in every man’s right to condemn himself to hell by his own hand and thirty five years of life together were not making the role easier. Nevertheless, he gave his master a nod.  
  
“Forgive me” Grimaud whispered, although he did not know if he was more ashamed by the mischief of Blaisois or by force him to do violence to himself in this way.  
  
“We will sort it out,” he promised and held him to his chest, he knew his valet needed a little tenderness. “We always do, Grimaud.”


End file.
